Chapter V: Part 5

Matters being thus arranged, the messenger, after having obtained Simmins' address, took leave of his employer, with full authority to visit the unhappy owner of the surtout with the utmost vengeance of the law, and with a promise on his own part that he would duly inform the latter of his subsequent proceedings in the case--meaning thereby, that, so soon as the bird was caged, he would give due intimation thereof.

Leaving the process just detailed at the point to which we have brought it, we beg to introduce the reader to another personage who figures in our little drama: this is Mr Jacob Merrilees, a student of medicine, a gentlemanly young man, of limited means, but fair prospects, and, withal, talented and promising. He was at this moment pursuing his studies at the college of ----, and was making a progress in professional learning that augured well for his future success in the world. But, with this part of his history we have little or nothing to do--our interest in him being on a totally different account.

Talented, however, as our young friend was, he had, like other men, his little weaknesses; one in particular--but it was a natural and a harmless one--this was a rather excessive fastidiousness on the score of dress. He loved, of all things, to be smartly attired; and was thus, upon the whole, something of a dandy in his way. Unfortunately for poor Jacob, however, this was a taste which he was not always able to indulge in to the extent he could have wished. His circumstances, or rather his father's penuriousness, prevented it; and the consequence was, that he frequently found himself considerably below his own standard of perfection in the article toggery. It is true, that one less particular in this matter would hardly have agreed with him; but such were his own feelings on the subject, and that was enough.

Having mentioned the little weakness above alluded to--if, indeed, it can be called a weakness--it becomes our duty to show cause for having called the reader's attention to it. This duty, then, we will forthwith discharge; but we must be allowed to do so in our own way. We have said that our friend Merrilees was making rapid progress in his professional education; he was so, but he was advancing with no less celerity in another and fully more congenial study--namely, the study of love. What fair maiden, in the eyes of Jacob Merrilees, could compete with Miss Julia Willoughby? None. She was peerless! She was the fairest of the fair! Miss Julia Willoughby, then, was the chosen of Jacob's heart; but he had yet no assurance that his tender feelings towards her were reciprocated. Little else than the ordinary courtesies of society had yet passed between them, although these were certainly rapidly melting into more familiar intercourse. Still, as we said before, Jacob could not positively fix on the precise position which he held in the affections of Miss Julia Willoughby. He was still in a state of uncertainty; for no particular mark of favour had yet been bestowed upon him by the coy fair one. Judge, then, good reader, of the joyous feelings of the enamoured Jacob Merrilees, when he received the following note, written on glazed pink paper, sealed with the impression of a heart pierced by an arrow--said heart being supported by two pigeons--and folded into something of the fashion of a love-knot. Judge, then, good reader, we say, of his feelings on receiving this precious billet, the first palpable hint of his acceptability with which he had ever been favoured by his fair inamorato:--

"DEAR MR MERRILEES,--Would you make one of a party to visit the
wax-work to-morrow? I should be happy if you could. There will be
several young ladies of my acquaintance with us, and one or two
gentlemen. We propose meeting at our house. Hour, twelve of the
clock precisely. It _will particularly gratify me_, if you can make
it convenient to be one of the party," &c. &c.

"JULIA WILLOUGHBY."

"Dear, delightful creature!" exclaimed Jacob, in an ecstasy of rapture, and kissing the delicious document with the fervour and enthusiasm of a rapt and devoted love. "Make it convenient?" he exclaimed, with expressive energy. "Ay, that I will, adored and beloved Julia! although ten thousand difficulties were in my way. All engagements, all considerations, all duties, light of my life, idol of my adoration, must give way to thy slightest wish. It will particularly gratify thee!" he exclaimed, with a laugh of wild ecstasy. "Will it, will it?--oh! will it? Then am I a happy man indeed!" and he began to pace the room with the light rapid step of sudden and excessive joy.

In this process Jacob had indulged for several minutes, without adverting, as he usually did, in similar circumstances, to the representation of his own handsome person in a large mirror, which hung on one side of the apartment. As his fervour, however, began to abate, he threw glances at the glass _en passant_, and, with every turn, these glances became more earnest, and of longer duration, until he at length fairly planted himself before the faithful reflector, in order to submit his person to a thorough and deliberate inspection. The survey was perfectly satisfactory to Jacob; and he was turning away, highly gratified by its results, when his eye fell on the sleeve of his coat. "Ha," said Jacob, "getting scuffy, by all that's annoying. Had no idea. Won't do, won't do--that's clear. Can never go through the streets with Julia and her fair bevy of acquaintances in such a coat as this--never, never, never."

And, in great perplexity at the discovery he had made, Jacob flung himself down in a chair, and, with his hand placed on his forehead, began to think profoundly on the means of remedying the evil of a shabby coat. The time was too short to admit of his providing a new one; and, indeed, although it had been longer, this was an experiment on his tailor on which he could hardly have ventured, that gentleman having lately shown symptoms of restiveness which were by no means encouraging. What was to be done then?

"I have it!" said Jacob, starting up: "I will borrow a coat for the nonce from my friend, Bob Simmins. He will supply me with the desiderated garment."

No sooner conceived than executed. Down Jacob immediately sat, and forthwith indited the following billet to his friend Bob:--

"DEAR BOB,--Being invited for to-morrow to a party, at which there
is to be a large infusion of the fair sex, and finding after a
careful inspection, that my coat is not in the most healthy
condition, might I request the favour of your lending me a
corresponding piece of toggery for the occasion, if you have such
an article to spare, and said article be of a kind creditable to
the wearer.

"We are about a size, I think, and can therefore calculate on a
fit. Yours truly, JACOB MERRILEES."

Having written this note, Jacob forthwith sealed it, and put it into the hands of the maid-servant, with a request that she would see to its immediate delivery. The request was complied with. In ten minutes after, the girl was in the presence of the redoubted Bob Simmins; for redoubted he was, Bob being one of the most dashing fellows of his time, nevertheless of a rigid adherence to the praiseworthy rule of never paying a copper to anybody for anything.

Having opened his friend's note, and scanned it over--

"Ah yes, let me see"--and he stroked his chin, threw himself back in the chair, gazed on the roof, and thought for a moment. At length--"My compliments to Mr Merrilees," he said; "I will send him what he wants to-morrow morning."

In due course of time, to-morrow morning made its appearance, and with it came to Jacob's lodgings the promised article of dress. A bundle neatly put up, and whose outward covering was a yellow silk handkerchief, was handed in to Mr Merrilees, as he sat at breakfast. At once guessing at the contents of the package, Jacob started up, undid the knots by which it was secured, with an eager and impatient hand, took up the article it contained, shook out its folds, and gazed with ecstasy on a splendid surtout. It was Simmins'. Jacob knew it again. He had seen it a thousand times on his friend, and as often had praised and admired it. The cut, the braiding, the elegant fur neck--all had been marked, and cordially approved of. How good of Simmins, poor fellow! to send him his best coat! It was an obligation he would never forget.

Having unfolded the surtout, Jacob's next proceeding was to try it on. It was a beautiful fit. Not the hundredth part of an inch too short, too long, or too wide. It was, in fact, just the thing. Couldn't have been better, although it had been cut for him by Stultz's foreman. Convinced of this pleasing truth, Jacob stood before the glass for fully a quarter-of-an-hour, throwing himself into various attitudes, in order to bring out all the beauties of the much-admired garment; and every change of position increasing the favourable opinion which he entertained of his own appearance. Satisfied with the contemplation of himself in the mirror, Jacob now commenced a series of turns up and down the apartment; sometimes throwing his arms akimbo, sometimes folding them across his breast, and anon glancing down with a smile of ineffable admiration on the flowing skirts of his surtout. This new test of the merits of the borrowed garment having also been found satisfactory, and every other ordeal to which it could be subjected having also been had recourse to, and it having stood them all, Jacob put the last finishing touch to his person, gave a last look at the glass, and, with mincing step, went forth to conquer and to captivate. And never did man or woman either take the field for such a purpose with greater confidence in their own powers, or with greater certainty of success.

Before proceeding, however, to the place of meeting, Jacob bethought him of making a run the length of his friend Bob's, just to thank him for his kindness, and to show him how the surtout fitted. Obeying this impulse, he was, in a few minutes after, in the presence of the obliging Simmins. A lively chat ensued between the two friends, and continued with unabated energy, until Jacob, suddenly pulling out his watch, found that his appointed hour had passed. On making this discovery, he started from his chair, seized his hat, rushed out of the house, and, at the top of his speed, made for the residence of his beloved Julia Willoughby. Notwithstanding his speed, however, he was a little late. The party were already assembled. This was a trifle awkward; but it had its advantages, as we shall presently show. The approach to Miss Willoughby's residence was through a garden of considerable length, and thus all visiters might be fully, fairly, and minutely scanned as they advanced. Now, Jacob being a little late, as we have already said, the party, particularly the ladies, in their impatience for his arrival, had clustered around the windows, and were anxiously looking for his advent; so that the moment he opened the gate, both himself and his surtout were in full view of some half-dozen or more admiring spinsters. It was a complete triumph to Jacob, and he felt it to be so. He saw that all eyes were bent on him as he approached the house; that his surtout had attracted particular notice, and had become a subject of general remark and general approbation. He felt, in short, conscious that he had excited a sensation amongst the fair spectators of his approach. He saw the flutter of agitation. He marked the blush, the averted eye. He was delighted, elated. His surtout was triumphant. It had produced all the effects, so far as others are concerned, for which a surtout can be coveted. Conscious of the impression he had made, through the medium of his surtout, Jacob's step became more buoyant, his head more erect, and his whole mien more elevated and dignified.

Thus he entered the parlour, where the waiting party were assembled; and here, again, he had the satisfaction of finding his surtout an object of general observation. But let us ask, while Jacob is thus enjoying the favouring smiles of the fair, and thus revelling in his own delightful feelings, who and what are they, these two fellows who are skulking about Mr Willoughby's garden gate, as if waiting the egress of some one? Why, it is Howison--no other; and another professional gentleman, a concurrent. They are upon business. They have got scent of prey, and are following it out, with noses as keen and purpose as fell as those of a sleuth-hound. There can be no doubt of it. Hear them; listen to the gentle small talk that is passing between them.

Howison loquitur, and wiping his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief: "Feth, Davy, that was a rin; and no to mak him oot after a'. But we'll nail him yet."

Concurrent respondent: "But are ye sure it was him after a'?"

"Oh, perfectly! I canna be mistaen. It's the surtout, beyond a' manner o' doubt; and of course it's the man, too, seein he cam oot o' the house we were directed to."

The reasoning being quite satisfactory to the concurrent, he ventured no further remark on the subject of identity; and we avail ourselves of the temporary pause which now took place between the speakers, to explain, that they had seen Jacob emerging from Simmins'. They were just approaching at the moment; but the rapid rate at which the former was going prevented the closer intimacy which they intended, and hence the chase.

"Will we pin him in this house, then?" inquired Davy, again resuming the conversation.

"No; they might deny him. We'll wait whar we are a bit, till he comes oot. Dog him, if he taks the direction o' the jail, and nab him at a convenient opportunity."

"He may bilk us."

"We'll tak care o' that. We'll gie him heels for't, Davy, if that's his gemm."

A pause in the conversation, which was not for some time interrupted, here ensued. After a short while, however, it was again broken in upon.

"Whisht! whisht! Back, Davy, back!" (The two professional gentlemen were ensconced in a close or entry directly opposite Mr Willoughby's garden-gate.) "Back, Davy, back!" said Howison. "There's somebody comin. I hear folk speakin and lauchin in the garden."

Davy listened an instant, then acknowledged there were good grounds for the assertion, and immediately drew himself farther into his hiding-place, like an alarmed snail into its shell.

Howison, as the principal, now placed himself in front of his assistant, squeezed himself as close as he could to the wall, until he stuck as close to, and as flat on it, as a bat. He then, by a dexterous movement, thrust his head in a lateral direction, till his nose just cleared the corner of the close, when, closing his left eye, and concentrating his whole powers of vision in his right, he planted the solitary optic with eager vigilance on the garden gate, to watch the coming forth of those who were on its opposite side. For this he had not long to wait. In a few moments the gate flew open, and out sallied, with frequent bursts of merriment, one of the gayest and most joyous parties that a bright summer day ever brought forth; and gayest and most joyous of the whole was Jacob Merrilees. Of the whole squad his laugh was the loudest, his motions the liveliest, his looks the most cheerful. Jacob was in his element. He was in the midst of a bevy of ladies. One hung on each arm; while others, to whom fortune had not been so propitious in allowing them to get nearer his person, contented themselves with taking the arms again of their more favoured sisters--of those two enviable spinsters who had secured the posts of honour, the immediate vicinity of the admired Jacob Merrilees. Jacob was thus in the very centre of the gay band of fair spinsters; and a proud man was he of his enviable position. He talked!--ye gods, how he talked!--and chattered away in a manner most delightful to hear; at least so it seemed, from the frequent bursts of laughter which he elicited from his lively protegees. He smirked, and he smiled, and he bowed, first to one side and then to another, after his most captivating manner, and, in short, did all that a man who was pleased with himself, and desired to please others, could possibly do to maintain these agreeable feelings. He was the king of the roost--that was evident; the very centre of attraction; the delight, the glory, the leading star in the galaxy of beauty of which he formed a part.

The party having cleared the gate, took the road with a circular sweep round, and a burst of merriment that sufficiently betokened the lightness of heart and of heel of those of whom it was composed.

"Deek yon, Davy," exclaimed Howison, at this interesting moment, and now addressing the worthy just named, who had by this time come up alongside of him, and was also indulging himself in a bird's-eye view of the party round the corner of the close. "Deek yon, Davy. He's aff like a paitrik: but we'll bring him up wi' a short turn, I'm thinkin. We'll pit a slug through his wing. Little does he ken wha's watchin him."

"Wull we gie chase?" said the concurrent, who stood at this instant like a dog in the slip, with his neck on the stretch, and every nerve braced for the run.

"No, no; gie him the start a bit till he gathers confidence, and then we'll pounce on him. Wary, Davy, wary! keep in a bit. Dinna shute oot your head so far. If he gets a glisk o' ye, he'll tak to his trotters in a minnit, and gie us an infernal rin for't. See what lang legs the sinner has."

"I think I could rin him ony day," replied Howison's concurrent, "and gie him a start o' a hunner yards to the bargain."

"I'm no sure o' that," rejoined Howison, shaking his head doubtingly; "ye dinna ken hoo a man can rin wi' a caption at his heels. It maks them go at a deevil o' a rate. I've seen great, fat, auld chaps, that ye wadna hae thocht could rin a yard an't were to save their lives, flee like the win before a 'Whereas.'"

"Noo, noo, Davy," continued Howison, and now recalling his neighbour's attention to business, "let us be joggin. He's takin the richt road, so we'll just pin him at our leisure."

Saying this, the pair started, and in a short time were hovering on the skirts of the heedless party, and their heedless and unwary leader, the devoted Jacob Merrilees.

Wholly unconscious, as the reader will readily believe, of the plot that was thickening over his head, or, rather, at his heels, Jacob was continuing the career of banter, and lively small talk, and smart repartee, which distinguished his first appearance at the garden gate, when he suddenly felt himself gently touched from behind on the left shoulder. He turned round, but without quitting the arms of the fair ladies who hung upon him, and looked frowningly on Howison.

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Jacob, indignantly, and now glancing also at Howison's companion, who stood close by, with his stick tucked under his arm.

To this query the only reply was a knowing wink, and a significant wag of the forefinger, which, when translated, meant--"Come here, friend, and I'll tell you."

"Get along with you, sir!" said Jacob, contemptuously.

"Thank you, but I won't," replied Howison, saucily.

"No! Then what the devil do you want?"

"You," said the former, emphatically. "But you had better conduct yourself quietly, for your own sake."

"Now, my good fellow," replied Jacob, in a satirically calm tone, "_do_ tell me what you mean?"

"Do ye ken such a man as Fairly the tailor?" inquired Howison, who always affected a degree of playfulness in the execution of this department of his duties. "Do ye ken Fairly the tailor?" he said, with an intelligent smile.

"I know no such man, sir; never heard his name before," replied Jacob, angrily, and now urging his fair protegees onwards--the whole party having been stopped by the incident just detailed.

"Not so fast, friend," exclaimed Howison, making after his prey, and again slapping him on the shoulder, but now less ceremoniously. "You are my prisoner, and here's my authority," he added, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. It was the decreet against Simmins. "Although _you_ don't know Fairly, _I_ happen to know Fairly's surtout. The short and the long of the matter is, sir," continued Howison, "that I arrest you at the instance of John Fairly, tailor and clothier, for a debt of L4:15s., with interest and expenses, said debt being the price of the identical surtout which you have just now on your back. So come along quietly, or it may be worse for you."

We do not suppose it is necessary that we should describe the amazement of the unhappy wearer of the surtout in question, on so very extraordinary and incomprehensible a statement being made to him, nor that of his party, from the same cause. The reader will at once conceive what it was, without any such proceeding on our part.

Confounded, however, and amazed as he was, Jacob's presence of mind instantly showed him that he was in a dilemma, a regular scrape. That he must either acknowledge--and, in the presence of all his fair friends, there was death in the idea--that the surtout he wore, and which had procured for him so much admiration, was a borrowed one, or quietly submit to be dragged to jail as the true debtor. Jacob further saw exactly how the case stood. He saw that his friend Simmins had never paid for the very flashy article in which he was now arrayed (a discovery this, however, which did not in the least surprise him), and that _he_ was the person for whom the honours of Howison were intended.

Having, however, no fancy for incarceration, Jacob finally determined on avowing the distressing fact, that his surtout was a borrowed one, and that, not being its true owner, he was, of course, free of the attentions of Mr Howison. With a face, then, red as scarlet, and a voice expressive of great tribulation, Jacob made a public acknowledement of this humiliating truth, and was about to avail himself of the advantage which he calculated on deriving from it--namely, that of proceeding on his way--when, to his great horror and further confusion, he found that Howison determined on still sticking to him. In great agitation, Jacob again repeated that he was not Simmins, and that he had merely borrowed the surtout from that gentleman. To these earnest asseverations, Howison at first merely replied by an incredulous smile, then added--"It may be sae, sir; but that's a matter that maun be cleared up afterwards. In the meantime ye'll go wi' me, if you please; and, if no o' your ain accord, as I wad advise ye, by force, as I'll compel ye." Saying this, he plunged his hand into one of his pockets, and produced a pair of handcuffs, like a rat-trap. The exhibition of these ornaments, and the dread of getting up a scene on the public street, at once decided the unfortunate surtout-borrower to submit to his fate, and to walk quietly off with his new friends, Mr Howison and concurrent.

In ten minutes after, Jacob found himself snugly quartered in an airy chamber, with grated windows, commanding a pleasant view of a tread-mill in full operation; and here he remained, until the following morning brought such evidence of his identity as procured his liberation. On once more snuffing the fresh air, Jacob swore he would take care again whose coat he borrowed, when he should have occasion to ask such a favour from a friend; and we would advise the reader to exercise the like caution, should he ever find himself in similar circumstances.

THE SURGEON'S TALES.

THE SUICIDE.

It is a vain question, that which has been often stirred among men of our profession and metaphysicians, whether insanity--including under that word all the modes of derangement of the mental powers--is strictly a _disease_, the definition of which, according to the best authorities, is "an alternation from a perfect state of bodily health." Both parties may, to a certain extent, be right; for the one, including chiefly the metaphysicians, can successfully exhibit a gradation in the scale of derangement: beginning at the slightest peculiarity; passing on to an eccentricity; from that to idiosyncrasy; from that to a decay or an extraordinary increase of strength in a particular faculty--say memory; from that to a decay or an increase in the intensity of a feeling, an emotion, or a passion; from that to false perception--such as monomania, progressing to derangement as to one point or subject, often called madness, _quoad hoc_; and so on, through many other changes, almost imperceptible in their differences, to perfect madness--all without the slightest indication of a pathological nature being to be discovered or detected by the finest dissecting-knife. On the other hand, again, it is indisputable--for we medical men have demonstrated the fact--that a certain _degree_ of madness is almost always accompanied with derangement in the cerebral organs--the most ordinary appearance being the existence of a fluid of a certain kind in the chambers of the brain.

The best and the cleverest of us must let these questions alone; for, so long as we remain--and that may be, as it likely will be, for ever--ignorant of the subtle principle of organic life--the nature of the mysterious union of mind and matter--we will never be able to tell (notwithstanding all our mental achievements) whether madness has its primary beginning in the body or in the mind. We must remain contented with a knowledge of exciting causes, and with that melancholy lore which treasures up--alas! for how little good!--the dreadful symptoms which distinguish this miserable state of proud man from all other conditions of his earthly sorrow; exhibiting him conscious of being still a human creature impressed with the image of God, yet incapable of using the proudest gift of Heaven--his reason; susceptible of and suffering the most excruciating of all pains--imaginary evils, torments, agonies--yet placed beyond the pale of human sympathy; bent upon--following with cunning and assiduity the cruellest modes of self-immolation; and sometimes calmly _reasoning_ on the nature of the mysterious power that impels to a horrible and revolting suicide.

I have been led into this train of thought by the circumstances of the case I am now about to relate. It is one of a calm, reasoning, determined self-destroyer, in whom, with the single exception of wishing to die by violent and bloody means, I could discover no mental derangement. The case occurs every day; but there are circumstances in this of a peculiar nature, which set it apart from others I have witnessed, and seen described; and, as it bears the invaluable stamp of truth, my description of it may be held to be a chapter, and a melancholy one, in the wonderful history of human life, wherein, perhaps, the succeeding capital division may consist of an account of our own tragic fate, not less lamentable or less awful. Such creatures are we lords of the creation!--so completely veiled are the destinies of man!

It was, I think, in the month of December in the winter of 18--, that a man in the garb of a farmer called upon me, and requested me to visit George B----, a person, he said, of his own craft, who held a small sheep-farm back among the hills about three miles distant. I asked the messenger if the man was in danger, and if he wished me to proceed instantly to his residence, or if a call the first time that I passed that way, which might be next day, would suffice. He replied that his friend was not in immediate danger, and did not wish me to travel three miles for the special purpose of seeing him, but would be contented with, and grateful for, a visit from me on any early day that suited my convenience.

On the following day, I happened to be in that quarter of the country, and called at the house to which I had been directed. The day was cloudy, raw, and cold, and a stern north wind whistled among the brackens of the hills. I was struck with the situation and appearance of the house. It had formerly been a mansion-house, and was much larger than the ordinary residences of small sheep-farmers among the hills. The situation was peculiarly bleak, sequestered, and even dismal: no trees could be discovered in any direction; there was no outhouses attached to the dwelling; and no neighbouring residence was to be seen. The house stood alone, big, gaunt, cold, and comfortless, in the midst of bare hills, exposed to the bitter wind that careered through the valleys and ravines. Nor, as I approached, did I discover any signs of domestic stir or comfort. Several of the windows were closed up--the under part of the house apparently being only inhabited by the inmates, who showed no anxiety to ascertain by looking out who it was that had accomplished the task of getting to this barren and sequestered place.

On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young woman about eighteen years of age. She appeared to be delicate--being thin in her person, pale in her complexion, and of an irritable temperament, for she started when she saw me. An expression of melancholy pervaded features not unhandsome, and attracted particularly my attention, by almost instantly exciting my sympathy. I asked her if George B---- was in the house. She answered that her father, for such he was, had just gone to bed, having been for some time ailing. I told her that it was upon that account I had come to see him. She seemed then to know who I was, and thanked me for my attention. I stepped in; and, as I followed the young woman through a long passage to the room occupied by her father, she told me that her mother had died about a year before, and that there was no other individual living in the house but her and her remaining parent. A gloomy, unhappy pair! thought I, as I looked on her sombre face, and heard the wind moaning through the big, open house.

On entering the room, which was cold and poorly furnished, I observed George B---- sitting up in his bed reading a book, which I discovered to be a large Bible. He had a napkin bound round his temples. His face exhibited the true melancholic hue, being of a swarthy yellow; his eyes wore the heaviness generally found in people of that temperament; the muscles were firmly bound down by the rigid, severe, and desponding expression of dejection, generally found associated with these other characteristics; and throughout his face and manner there was exhibited an indifference to surrounding objects, which was only very partially relaxed by his recognition of me as I entered. There was, however, nothing of the look of a diseased man about him; for his face was full and fleshy, his nerves firm and well strung, his eye steady and unclouded, and his voice, as he welcomed me in, strong, and even rough and burly. His face resembled very much the _ideal_ of that of the old Covenanters; and the large Bible he held in his hands aided the conception, and increased the picturesque effect of the whole aspect of the man.

He knew, or took it for granted, that I was the surgeon he had sent for, pointed to a chair, that I might sit down, and beckoned to his daughter Margaret, as he called her, to leave the room. The young woman retired slowly, and I observed, as she proceeded towards the door, she threw back two or three nervous looks, which I thought indicated a strong feeling of apprehension, mixed with her filial sympathy. As the door shut, it sounded as if it had lost the catch; the father caught the sound, appeared angry, and requested me to rise and shut it effectually, and, as he added, carefully. I complied, and he seemed to listen for some time, as if to try to ascertain whether his daughter had proceeded along the passage to the kitchen. He was uncertain, and listened again, but was still unresolved; at last, he said he was sorry to give me so much trouble, but he felt he could not enter upon the subject about which he wished to consult me until he was satisfied, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Margaret was not listening. I rose and went to the door. On opening it, I saw the young woman standing behind it. On perceiving me, she retreated precipitately and fearfully along the dark passage. I shut the door; and, being unwilling, in my ignorance of the cause of all this mysterious secrecy and suspicion, to betray the poor girl, who had perhaps some good legitimate object in solicitude, I said simply that there was now nobody there. He was satisfied; and I again sat down.

I then asked him what was the particular complaint about which he wished to consult me.

"That is precisely what I wish to know," he replied. "I hae nae complaint aboot _my body_, which, God be thanked! is just as strong as it used to be. But there is a change in my mind, different frae the healthy griefs, and sorrows, and pains o' mortals. My wife, the best o' women, died a year ago. In a short time after, I lost the greater number o' my sheep in a storm, which prevented me frae payin my Candlemas rent. But mony a man loses his wife, and mony a shepherd his sheep, without tellin a doctor o' their loss. I laid my account wi' sufferin grief as heavy as mortal ever suffered; and in this house, in this bed, on these hills, in the kirk, and at our cattle trysts, I hae struggled wi' my sorrow. But, sir," leaning his head towards me, and speaking low, "_it winna a' do_."

He paused, and, as he fixed his eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, as if he had already, as it were, broached a subject that was fearful to himself.

"What mean you?" said I.

"I mean, that _I canna live_!" he replied, energetically, seizing the Bible with a spasmodic grasp--closing it--throwing it to the back of the bed--then falling in an instant into a state of real dejection, with his arms folded over his breast, and his eyes cast down.

"Grief often produces these gloomy thoughts," said I; "but they are the mere fancies of a sick mind--generated in sorrow, and dying with the time-subdued cause that produces them. There is not a bereaved husband, wife, parent, or child in the land, that does not, in the first struggle with a new grief, entertain and cherish, for passing moments of agony, such sick fancies of rebelling nature. You have not yet given time and your energies a fair trial. You must have patience."

"There is some consolation in that," he replied. "I am glad when I think that the thought that haunts and alarms me is no sae dangerous as it sometimes appears to me. This book (sweet comforter!) tells me that Tobit prayed to be dissolved, and become earth, because o' his sorrow. It tells me, also, that Job, in his agonies, cried, 'My soul chooseth strangling and death rather than life.' My experience o' the ills o' life (and a man o' sixty-five must have some portion o' that) informs me o' the truth o' what you have told me, that an extraordinary burden o' grief often wrings frae the sick soul a wish to dee and be at rest. But oh! I fear my situation is different. I hae _mair_ than a wish to be dissolved; for sure none o' my brethren in sorrow"--here his voice fell almost to a whisper, and tears rolled down his cheek--"ever lay wi' the like o' that"--holding up a razor--"under his sick pillow."

I was alarmed, being utterly unprepared for this exhibition.

"You need be under nae alarm," he continued, wiping the tears from his eyes. "My courage is not yet strong enough. God be praised for it! Moments o' fearfu fortitude sometimes come owre me, and I have held that instrument in my clenched hand--ay, within an inch o' my bared throat; but the resolution passes as quickly as it comes, and terror, cowardice, and a shiverin cauld--dreadfu to suffer--come in their place. Lay it past, sir--lay it past."

I obeyed; and, as I proceeded to place the instrument on the top of a chest of drawers, I heard the noise of some one in the passage, with suppressed ejaculations of--"O God! O God!"

"I wadna hae shown you that," he continued, as I sat down, "but that it is my wish to tell you the warst; for nae man can expect assistance, if he is ashamed or afraid to show his necessities and his danger. I didna send for you to cure my body, but to examine my mind, and tell me if it is sound and healthy, or weak and diseased, and therefore I will conceal naething frae ye that may show you its state and condition."

I was pleased to find I had so tractable a patient. I paused for a moment, to consider in what way I should draw him out, and on what side I should attack him--whether I should argue calmly with him, and endeavour to stimulate his feelings of duty to his Maker, to himself and his poor daughter; or shake him roughly as a vain and sinful dreamer who had voluntarily swallowed a pernicious soporific, and try to awaken him, and keep him awake, after the manner of our remedial endeavours to save those who have attempted to poison themselves by laudanum. I saw, in an instant, that he was by far too strong-minded a man to be operated upon effectually by the mere charm of the imputed reach and strength of our cabalistic lore--an agent, if well employed, of great good in our profession--and too determined (for such resolutions are always, in some degree, a false result of reasoning powers) to be put from his purpose either by a firm pressure of logical authority, or the subtle and more dangerous means of good-humoured or severe satire. My course was clearly to endeavour to affect the form of his own reasoning, and, if possible, to invest it with a character which might be recognised as true by the peculiar, and, no doubt, morbid perceptions he possessed of moral truth. I began by securing his eye, which I saw was, at times, inclined to wander, or take on that unmeaning, dull, glazed aspect which people in the act of brooding over intense sorrows--as if the optic nerves were thereby paralysed--so often exhibit.

"What train of mind are you in generally," said I, "when the wish to die, accompanied with the fortitude you have mentioned, comes upon you in its strongest form?"

"I first fall into a state of low spirits," said he, "and then nae effort I can use will tak my mind aff my dead wife. I think for whole hours--sometimes on the hills, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in my bed--of our courtship, our marriage, our happy life, and her miserable, painful, untimely death. This feeds my sorrow, which grows stronger, and descends deeper and deeper, till it reaches my brain, and I am sunk in the darkness o' despair. To escape frae thoughts o' past sorrows that are owre strong to be borne, I try to look forward to the future; but, alas! I see naething there but the pain o' livin for a number o' comfortless years o' auld age, draggin after me, a memory clogged wi' past ills, and naething afore me but a jail, and want, and lingerin death."

"These are false views of life," said I--"overstrained and morbid. I must teach you to think better. You have a daughter who will comfort you, and whom you are bound to support and protect."

"True, true," he cried; "I hae a dochter, and a better never sacrificed her ain thochts and feelins to the comforts o' a faither. The idea o' leavin her, young, faitherless, poor, and full o' sorrow, in the midst o' a bad world, has before this" (lowering his voice) "brought down that rebellious hand from this throat. But, alas for the inconsistency and mutability o' man's fancies!--dearly as I love that creature, and she is now my only comfort, my very affection for her sometimes sinks me deeper into that sorrow which produces the dreadfu purpose o' takin awa my ain life; for I think--oh! how weak is man's proud reason, when the heart is broken wi' grief!--that an auld parent under the ban o' poverty is a burden to a child. His death (so in these unhappy moments do I think) relieves the unhappy bairn o' twa evils--that o' toilin maybe in vain to support him, and that o' witnessin age, decrepitude, pain, misery, and want, wringin frae his shrivelled and diseased body groans o' agony, strikin the heart o' his child wi' mair pain than would be caused by the knell o' his death."

He now sank his face in the bedclothes, which he grasped with a spasmodic hand, and groaned so deep and loud that the sounds might have reached the passage. I again heard a noise from that quarter, as if of stifled sighs and hysterical sobs. I was placed between the groans of a father bent against his own judgment on self-destruction, and the terrors and griefs of a daughter listening to the horrible recital of her parent's designs against his life. The loneliness of the house, and the solitude of the unhappy pair--with no one to aid the young woman, in the event of any appalling extremity to which the unnatural purpose of her father might drive him--struck me forcibly. I had no recollection of ever experiencing a scene of grief so peculiar, with such fearful and uncertain issues, so irremediable and heart-stirring. The groans of the one and the sobs of the other seemed to vie with each other in the effect they produced upon me; but, great as the pain of the father was, the sufferings of the daughter, perhaps as peculiar and touching as any that could be conceived, engaged to the greatest extent my sympathy. It was my duty and wish to try to remove the fundamental cause of all this suffering; and I waited the end of the paroxysm of the father's sorrow in order to resume the conversation.

"These views," said I, as he calmed, "which you take of life, and its duties and affections, are all false and distorted. It is our duty to try to regulate our thoughts as well as our actions by some steady supporting principle, which mankind have agreed in considering as true, whether it be derived from the direct Word of God or from the written tablets of the heart. The taking away of our life--originally given to us as a trust, or imposed on us by the Author of all good, for certain ends and purposes which are veiled from our view--is undoubtedly in many respects, as regards God himself, ourselves, our children, and our neighbours, a great, flagrant, horrible crime. It is against the law of God, the law of our country, the organic law of our physical constitution, and the moral law of our minds. It is indeed the only act that can be mentioned that is against _all_ these. It does not require me to tell you that suicide, with other murders, was denounced by God himself, speaking in words that all mankind have heard, from the 'thick cloud' that hung over Mount Sinai. You are, I presume, a Christian, and the Sacred Book containing that denunciation lies at your side; and yet you have made the dreadful confession to me, that you have dared to meditate on the breaking, the despising, the contemning of the command of Him who by less than a command--ay, than even a word, by the lifting up of his finger--may consign you to an eternity of agony, in comparison of which all the sorrow you now suffer is less than a grain of sand to the sandbanks of the sea."

"It is true, it is true!" replied the unhappy man. "I know, I _feel_ that every word you have uttered is true, maist true and undeniable as are the sentiments o' this holy book," grasping again the Bible; "but can ye--wha, by the command o' books and education, can dive farther into the nature o' the mind than ane like me--explain this mystery, that, when my soul is filled wi' the darkness o' sorrow, and my rebellious purpose o' self-murder whispers in my mind treachery and war against God, thae truths ye hae uttered, for they hae occurred to me before, tak flight like guid angels, and leave me to warsle wi' a power that subdues me? It is then that I am in danger, and the hand that has held up to my throat that fatal instrument I had under my pillow, has the moment before been lifted up vainly in prayer to God, to throw owre my mind the light o' thae grand truths. What avails it, then, that there are times when I love them, and am guided by them, and thank Heaven for the precious gift o' knowin, feelin, and appreciatin them, if there are other moments when they flee frae me, and I am left powerless in the grasp o' my enemy?" Pausing, and falling again into a fit of dejection. "I fear, I fear the best o' us are only the slaves o' some mysterious power. But"--starting up, as if recollecting himself--"I put a question to you--answer me in the name o' Heaven; for if I gie mysel up to the belief o' an all-powerful necessity, I am a lost man and a self-murderer."

He was now clearly approaching a rock whereon many a gallant bark has been shivered to atoms. Even healthy-minded men cannot look at the question of the necessity of the will without staggering and reeling; and hypochondriacs love to get drunk by inhaling the vapours of mysticism that rise from it, destroying as they do all moral responsibility, and concealing the vengeance of heaven and the terrors of hell. It was necessary to lead him from this dangerous subject, which it was clear he had been studying and dreaming about, with all that love of subtlety and mysticism which melancholy generates.

"No sensible man," said I, "believes in the absolute necessity of the will. After the will is fixed, the liberty is already exercised, and there is indeed _no will_ in the mind at all, until it takes the form of an active, moving, propelling principle. But these are abstruse fancies, which you must fly, if you wish to possess a healthy mind. Sorrow, or any other feeling of pain, will extinguish while it lasts the burning lights of principle or sentiment. The pain of the amputation of a limb prevents, while it lasts, the natural working of the mind; but _grief may be averted_, and the great healing secret of that is, that the mind _must_ be occupied. Renounce all abstruse thinking, all day-dreaming, all sorrowful remembering, all sentimental musing--look upon application, exercise, work, as a duty and a medicine, and I will answer for your expelling from your mind that dreadful purpose that entails upon you misery, and disgraces the nature of man."

"Your advice is excellent," replied he, somewhat roused; "but, unfortunately, I hae got the same frae my ain mind; and, what is mair, I hae tried it--I hae tried it again and again;--the medicine is worth nae mair to me than a bread pill. My efforts to exercise my mind, when a fit o' sorrow presses upon it, only mak the sorrow the heavier, by makin the mind less able to bear it. My soul is for ever bent on that question o' the necessity o' the will which you despise and avoid. I will, God is my witness, argue it with you, calmly and reasonably."

"Unless you agree to renounce that question," said I, "I can do you no good."

"Then," replied he, with a groan, "I am left to Heaven and my unavoidable fate. May God have mercy on my soul!"

And he again relapsed into a fit of dejection, his head leaning on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the bed.

I could, I found, make no more of him that day, and my other avocations required my departure. I told him I would call again, and bring or send him some medicine.

"It is an unnecessary waste o' your valuable time," he said, lifting up his head, "to call again upon a wretch like me. I am much obliged to you for advice; but the only medicine for me is--_death_."

He pronounced the fearful word with an emphatic guttural tone, which gave it a terrific effect. I opened the door to depart, and was surprised to find that it would not go back sufficiently to allow me to pass freely. The probable cause of the interruption flashed upon my mind in an instant. Without speaking a word, I edged myself through, and saw, lying at the back of the door, the body of the unfortunate young woman, in a state of insensibility. I had presence of mind enough not to carry her into the room where her father lay; but, seeing the light of the kitchen at the further end of the long gloomy passage, I snatched her up in my arms, and hastened with her thither. Having laid her on a small truckle bed, whereon, I presume, she usually slept, I found she was in a deep swoon; and, notwithstanding that it was getting dark, and my time was expired, I waited her recovery. As she lay before me, pale as a corpse, and as I thought of the cause of her illness, and looked round in vain for any one to give her assistance or consolation (the groans of her father, which I indistinctly heard, being the only answer that would have been given to a call for aid in a house more like a haunt for ghosts and spectres than a residence for human beings), I felt the impression of her peculiar misery pass over me, making me shudder as if I had been seized with a fit of the ague. The frail, brittle creature lying there, a victim of hysterics, fit only to be cherished and guarded by a doting mother--placed in a large, empty, gousty mansion--doomed to guard alone a suicide and a father, and, perhaps, to wrestle with him through blood--her parent's blood!--for the preservation of a remaining spark of a self-taken life! She at length recovered, exhibiting the ordinary precursors of returning consciousness--convulsive shiverings, rolling of the eyes, and beating about with the hands. On perceiving me indistinctly, she articulated--

"Death! death!--that was the word he spoke sae wildly.--Ah! I know it now!--James H---- has lang tried to conceal it frae me; but I hae discovered it at last. Can you save him, sir?--can you save the faither o' her wha has scarcely anither freend on earth?"

A flood of tears followed this ejaculation. She tore her hair like a maniac. I tried everything in my power to pacify her; but terror had completely mastered her weak nerves, and she shook as the successive frightful images suggested by her situation passed through her excited and still confused mind.

"Is there no one in those parts," said I, "that can attend your father, and assist you? Who is the James H---- you just now mentioned?"

"He is my cousin," replied she. "He lived with us for some time; but my father and he quarrelled about a _razor_, which he said James wanted to steal from him. But I see it now. There was nae theft. James, poor James, was innocent, and wanted to save him; but they concealed it frae me, and my cousin was turned away."